Take Tom

Take Tom. My next door neighbour. And a man with whom I used to
share a sense of humour, there not being that many to go round right
now. A previously confident and happy man, sturdy of spirit and steady
of judgement, whose collapse began, like most, innocently enough. Just
a little timer device to turn the TV on and off when he was on holiday
in Corfu for a fortnight, suggesting to the outside world that this
house of his was still inhabited, and not sitting there vacant asking
to be burgled. And when he came back the little additions were
applauded for their ingenuity rather than questioned as signs of an
approaching psychosis. A mechanised curtain opener and closer. Swish!!
Timers attached to one or two kitchen implements; the food mixer
swirling into life in the middle of the night should any villain be
about to pounce. But it didn't stop there. Whenever anyone went to
visit the man he would be wiring something up to yet another remote
control, imitating dog noises into a tape recorder, or reprogramming
all of the timings in case a pattern was noticeable to the more astute
and long term burglar. For twenty four hours a day the house buzzed,
belched and shuddered. Lamps flashing on and off as hoovers rushed
across the carpets and loud and strange barks echoed across the street.
To the outside world it seemed as though some mythical circus had moved
into No.61 Oscar Road and crowds would gather to see the magical house
perform, as Tommy was taken away, shouting 'It's fucking working
though! It's fucking working!' as he was prised off of the spin
dryer.